


The Devil's Food

by rufflefeather



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur fails at cake-baking, Merlin is a cat and Gwaine does things with frosting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Food

_[Ingredients](http://www.marthastewart.com/318202/moist-devils-food-cake?czone=food/cake-center/favorite-cake-recipes&center=276954&gallery=274371&slide=255173)  
  
1 1/2 cups (3 sticks) unsalted butter, plus more for pans  
3/4 cup Dutch-process cocoa powder, plus more for pans  
1/2 cup boiling water  
2 1/4 cups sugar  
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract  
4 large eggs, lightly beaten  
3 cups sifted cake flour (not self-rising)  
1 teaspoon baking soda  
1/2 teaspoon salt  
1 cup milk  
A bottle of rum with Gwaine attached to it. _  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
The thing is, Arthur is in control of his life. He’s in control of his job (tax lawyer, not as boring as it sounds –– honest. Do you have any idea how handy it is to know all those loopholes? You wouldn’t  _believe_  the amount of friends Arthur suddenly has come tax-return).  
  
He’s in control of his grey Norwegian Forest cat, [Merlin](http://www.yeepet.com/blog_image/201108/BlogImg4_1314755393.jpg) (named  _before_  he met the guy – yes, he’s heard all the jokes. Besides, Merlin is supposed to be an old dude with grey hair. Not goofy and gangly and well,  _Merlin_ ). He’s in control of –– (and really, who calls their son Merlin these days? It’s ridiculous. True, the guy can’t help it, but Arthur did  _not_  name his cat after him, mmkay?) –– um, where were we?  
  
Ah yes, most of all, Arthur is in control of his feelings.  
  
As in, he doesn’t have them. (You know, raised without a mother, emotionally stilted father, blah–dee–blah, the usual.)  
  
He didn’t have them when his pygmy goat Percival died when Arthur was six (what? He likes the King Arthur legend, all right?) and anyone who says he cried for three days straight is a lying liar. Who makes things up.  
  
He didn’t have any feelings when Helena broke up with him when he was ten. He certainly did not mope on the sun lounge roof beneath his bedroom window for nights on end. He was taking an interest in astrology –– astronomy –– er, whatever.  
  
Arthur certainly didn’t have any feelings when Merlin (that is Merlin the man, not Merlin the cat. And when he says man, he means that in the loosest sense of the word,) introduced him to a broody-eyed, broad-shouldered, lion-maned guy called Gwaine. (Yes, really. Gwaine. Fuck his life, it’s not like Arthur goes out of his way to find these people.)  
  
So when Gwaine had swept in and blown Arthur’s mind (amongst other things) and then left the next morning with a wink and a: “That was gorgeous, princess. See you some time.” Arthur had not walked around with the expression of a kicked puppy for two weeks, no matter what Morgana says. (Trust his best friend to hook up with his sister so that the chances of her joining some convent where she’d have to take a vow of silence diminish by the day.)  
  
Now as Arthur’s luck would have it, Gwaine has become a permanent fixture in their group of friends, thanks to Merlin-the-not-quite-man, and this year Morgana had the luminous idea of doing Christmas presents hippie-style. People were supposed to pair up and together they’d make a gift out of stuff that could be bought for ten quid or less. So instead of just drawing a secret Santa name, they had to draw an arts and crafts buddy as well.  
  
Arthur is reasonably sure he’d been set up when Merlin drew the last but one name, put it back and picked the other one.  
  
‘No, Gwaine,’ Arthur is now saying, hands in his hair, phone on speaker on the kitchen counter in front of him, ‘we’re not doing a macrame dress for Morgana. … Because first of all, neither of us know how to do it, and second of all the party is tonight and I’m fairly certain it would take us  _weeks_  to … No …  _I_  wasn’t the one who kept procrastinating! … I told you ages ago we should... A pet rock? What even is a pet rock? I don’t … Look,’ Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, something he does a lot when he’s near Gwaine. Merlin had started calling it his Gwainache. ‘We’re baking a cake. … No, I don’t know how to bake but how hard can it be? They have videos on YouTube and shit. … Yeah we can do it here. I’ll get the ingredients, meet me at my place in two hours.’  
  
So Arthur sets himself to finding a relatively easy recipe with a video explanation and since he doesn’t have any feelings, he certainly isn’t experiencing any annoyance, nor dread at the thought of being cooped up in his apartment alone with Gwaine for  _hours_.  
  
By the time Gwaine arrives, everything is set out neatly. The flour and sugar are measured in neat glass bowls, the chocolate chips are ready to be melted on the gas stove, the eggs, salt, milk (exact amount poured in a red and green flowered ceramic cup) and baking soda are displayed in a row on the counter top. Arthur’s laptop is at the ready, the recipe open in one window, the video open and paused in another.  
  
 _Really,_  Arthur thinks, just as the doorbell goes,  _what could possibly go wrong?_  
  
//  
  
 _Heat oven to 350 degrees. Arrange two racks in center of oven. Butter three 8-by-2-inch round cake pans; line bottoms with parchment. Dust bottoms and sides of pans with cocoa powder; tap out any excess. Sift cocoa into a medium bowl, and whisk in boiling water. Set aside to cool._  
  
//  
  
‘I brought rum!’ Gwaine says as he walks into the living room as if he belongs there.  _And wouldn’t it be nice_ , Arthur carefully doesn’t think as Gwaine slips out of his leather jacket and flings it over Arthur’s [orange Togo](http://mocoloco.com/archives/2005_ligneroset_togo_03.jpg),  _if he did._  
  
‘Well, I suppose we can have a glass,’ says Arthur, picking up the coat and hanging it in the hallway closet. ‘But only after we’re done baking.’  
  
‘Not for us darling, for the cake,’ Gwaine says, walking into the kitchen. ‘Not that I’d be averse to a sip myself.’  
  
‘But,’ Arthur splutters, ‘there’s no rum in the recipe!’  
  
‘So, we can improvise.’ Gwaine grins, flinging himself onto one of Arthur’s bar-stools, swishing his hair away from his face so he can watch Arthur, who most  _certainly_  does  _not_  have the feeling that things are spinning out of control already.  
  
‘Merlin!’ he yells and Gwaine’s eyes go comically wide. ‘Get off the counter!’  
  
The large grey cat gives Arthur a snooty look before licking its lips and moving away from the cup of milk.  
  
‘Merlin,’ Gwaine says, puffing out a breath of laughter. ‘You called your cat Merlin?’  
  
‘I had the cat before I had Merlin. I mean - never mind. We have baking to do.’  
  
Arthur did  _not_  stamp his foot, no matter what Gwaine tells everyone that night at Morgana’s party.  
  
Gwaine picks up the bowl with flour and shakes it about a little. ‘You are prepared aren’t you?’ he says.  
  
‘Don’t mess with that, it took me ages to convert the measurements,’ Arthur says gruffly. He walks to his pantry to put on his apron, glances over his shoulder at Gwaine who is looking at his laptop and decides it’s probably best not to be seen with “I rub my meat for 2 minutes” (courtesy of Merlin, who else) written all over his chest.  
  
‘Convert the measurements?’ Gwaine says, frowning at the laptop. ‘Martha Steward, Arthur? Really? What’s wrong with choosing one of Nigella’s recipes, like, you know, a normal British person?’  
  
‘Martha Steward rules, okay?’ says Arthur. In fact he thinks her Holiday Organizing Ideas page is the best thing since sliced bread (he’s definitely trying her tip to store Christmas lights. It took him ages to untangle his this year. But they do look lovely now, on the mantle piece – er – anyway), but he’s not about to tell Gwaine that. ‘Besides, I have the stuff for this recipe, so this is the one we’re doing. Got it?’  
  
‘We’re doing Martha Steward,’ Gwaine says with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Got it.’  
  
Arthur huffs a put upon sigh and rummages around in his cupboards looking for a bowl to beat the eggs in.  
  
‘What do you want me to do?’ Gwaine asks, nudging Arthur with his foot from the chair.  
  
‘Just sit there and look pretty,’ Arthur says before he can clamp his mouth shut.  
  
‘Oh, think I’m pretty, do you?’  
  
Arthur says something sounding a lot like  _grumble_  and pretends to keep looking for a bowl he found ages ago, just because he can’t think of a come-back and not because his face is all flushed and pink.  
  
‘Right,’ Arthur says, straightening up and pretending Gwaine’s grin means he’s completely fooled by Arthur’s diversionary tactics, ‘you can beat the eggs. Lightly. Whatever that means.’  
  
‘It means I beat them while whispering sweet nothings to them.’ Gwaine hops off the chair and rolls up his shirt sleeves, his arm brushing Arthur’s as he reaches for the whisk. ‘It’s okay sweetheart,’ he coos to the first egg. ‘I’ll be gentle.’  
  
He cracks the egg against the side of the bowl and drops the content into it one-handed.  
  
‘Why does it look like you know what you’re doing?’ Arthur demands.  
  
‘Because I’m a pro at pretending I’m good at stuff and usually people believe me.’  
  
Arthur frowns, but goes to turn on the oven. (350 degrees... that must be Fahrenheit. God, Gwaine was right, he should’ve...)  
  
‘That’ll be 180 degrees Celsius,’ Gwaine says, whisking all four eggs with a mesmerising wrist movement.  
  
‘Mm. What?’ Arthur says dreamily.  
  
‘The oven,’ Gwaine smiles, tucking the bowl against his stomach and turning so he can face Arthur, never ceasing the crisp beat of his hand. Gwaine’s hair has fallen over his forehead again, and really, isn’t that just the most unhygienic thing when you’re preparing food? Maybe Arthur should just reach out and tuck those soft strands back into –.  
  
‘Oven? Right! Oven. Heat. For baking!’  
  
Arthur turns on the oven and takes the three cake pans he buttered earlier. Squinting at the recipe, he reads: ‘Dust bottoms and sides of pans with cocoa powder; tap out any excess.’ He reaches for the unopened can of cocoa powder but is a little distracted by Gwaine setting down his bowl and leaning against Arthur so he can read the recipe too. Arthur pulls the lid too hard and a large cloud of cocoa-soot wafts up and covers his white shirt and face.  
  
‘Well,’ Gwaine says, licking his lips. ‘Isn’t that a sight for hungry eyes?’  
  
Arthur grabs the rum and takes a large gulp straight from the bottle.  
  
‘What happened to not drinking until we’re done?’ Gwaine wants to know.  
  
‘Shut up and whisk,’ Arthur wheezes, the alcohol burning hot on the way down. He grabs a towel and wipes his face, thanking whatever cooking God is listening that he hadn’t changed for the party yet.  
  
With the air of someone who knows what he’s doing, Gwaine beats the butter until it’s fluffy, adding the sugar bit by bit. His forearms flex and tighten with every move, and Arthur can’t help remembering those hands trailing over his skin.  
  
He wonders if he should’ve done something different. If he should have swallowed his pride and asked Gwaine to stay. To tell him,  _God, I’ve never had a night like this. This can’t be it, can it? This can’t be the end?_  
  
‘What’s up darling?’ Gwaine asks. ‘You look like Merlin did when you stole his milk.’  
  
‘Merlin’s lactose intolerant,’ Arthur says automatically and Gwaine’s face drops.  
  
‘Shouldn’t we call a vet then?’ he asks, alarmed. ‘Who knows how much he’s had!’  
  
‘Now Gwaine, I know Merlin can be a bit ditsy sometimes, but taking him to the vet would be a step... oh, you mean cat-Merlin.’ Arthur sighs and closes his eyes. This would be the part where he’d feel like a right idiot if, you know, he had feelings.  
  
‘You missed some,’ Gwaine says, from startlingly close and when Arthur opens his eyes, Gwaine is licking his thumb and wiping at some cocoa powder by Arthur’s nose. Gwaine’s gaze is surprisingly soft and if Arthur could only shake the courage from his socks and gather it up –, but Gwaine has turned again to sift the flour together with some other ingredients. Arthur isn’t even paying attention to the cake anymore.  
  
This certainly isn’t how the afternoon was supposed to go.  
  
  
//  
  
 _Drizzle in eggs, a little at a time, beating between each addition until the batter is no longer slick, scraping down the sides twice.  
  
In a large bowl, sift together flour, baking soda, and salt. Whisk milk into reserved cocoa mixture. With mixer on low speed, alternately add flour and cocoa mixtures to the batter, a little of each at a time, starting and ending with flour mixture._  
  
//  
  
  
Arthur is leaning on the counter, head propped up by the rum bottle, watching Gwaine pour the batter into the cake pans.  
  
‘You’re very good at that,’ he says.  
  
‘Good at what?’ Gwaine asks, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
‘At pouring. You’re very good at pouring. Really. You pour like a … who’s someone that pours like a pro?’ Arthur lifts the rum bottle but misses his mouth and feels some of the liquid dribble down his chin.  
  
‘I think you’ve had quite enough of that,’ Gwaine says, rescuing the bottle from Arthur’s slipping grasp. ‘I thought you could hold your drink a bit better than that, princess.’ Gwaine holds the bottle against the light and huffs out a disbelieving laugh. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I think you’d better go sleep this off. Morgana will kill me with a spork if I bring you to her party drunk as a skunk.’  
  
‘But I got to cake the finish,’ Arthur says, pointing vaguely in the direction of the oven.  
  
‘It’s only the icing now. I think I can manage melting the chocolate without you.’  
  
Gwaine lifts Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and hauls him off the bar-stool.  
  
‘Don’tyougoruinmycakenow,’ Arthur slurs. ‘I forked very hard on that.’  
  
‘That you did, darling,’ Gwaine says, dropping Arthur unceremoniously onto the couch. He seems to hesitate for a moment, then kneels down. ‘What brought on this sudden burst of sailor-style binging?’ he asks.  
  
Arthur pouts mournfully and sighs. ‘Your hands,’ he says, although in his head it sounds like: ‘Nothing at all, I am not drunk, just tired, I have no feelings, leave me alone,’ before passing out.  
  
  
//  
  
 _Place chocolate morsels and cream in a heavy saucepan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a rubber spatula, until combined and thickened, between 20 and 25 minutes. Increase the heat to medium low; cook, stirring, 3 minutes more. Remove pan from heat._  
  
//  
  
  
When Arthur cracks open one eye, face mushed into one of his throw pillows and neck at an awkward angle, it is to a darkened room and the enticing smell of melting chocolate. He croaks out a groan and shifts to a sitting position, head in his hands. For some reason one of his feet is bare, and he can’t locate the missing sock anywhere.  
  
‘Oh my God,’ he says, when he pads into the kitchen. Gwaine turns and gives him the once over, his face splitting into a grin when his eyes come to rest on Arthur’s hair.  
  
‘The last time I saw you so rumpled,’ Gwaine says, lazily stirring thick, dark liquid in a large glass bowl, ‘you looked positively more satisfied.’  
  
Arthur feels his cheeks redden and he rubs at them. ‘Do we have any paracetamol?’ he asks and Gwaine laughs delightedly.  
  
‘I don’t know love, this is your place remember?’  
  
‘Right,’ Arthur breathes, shaking his head in mild self-deprecation. He stares around the kitchen, which is surprisingly neat, three round cakes cooling on cookie trays. ‘Sorry about that. You know, making you do all the work and me –’  
  
‘Stealing my booze?’ Gwaine asks. He lifts the spatula from the bowl, the chocolate swirling down from it in thick strands, filling the room with sweetness and memories from other Christmases.  
  
‘Yeah.’ Arthur stares down at his un-socked foot, his hand resting at the back of his neck.  
  
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can come up with a way for you to make it up to me.’  
  
‘Um,’ Arthur says. ‘Do I have time for a shower?’ Arthur glances at the clock, they don’t need to be at Morgana’s for another hour.  
  
‘Sure, this frosting needs to chill for another fifteen minutes or so and then we can put together the cake.’  
  
Arthur frowns at him, a disbelieving smile spreading slowly. ‘How-?’ he begins, but Gwaine ushers him out of the kitchen.  
  
‘Go, go,’ he says. ‘You smell more like a tavern wench than a princess right now.’  
  
  
//  
  
 _Stir in corn syrup. Transfer frosting to a large metal bowl. Chill until cool enough to spread, about 2 hours, checking and stirring every 15 to 20 minutes. Use immediately._  
  
//  
  
  
‘Much better.’  
  
Arthur looks up into the large mirror of his closet, hand hovering over the onyx cufflink he was buttoning up. He sees Gwaine’s reflection leaning in the door frame to Arthur’s bedroom, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes obscured by the fringe falling over his forehead. The cufflink slips from his fingers and falls to the wooden floor with a hollow thunk.  
  
‘Here, let me,’ Gwaine says, pushing himself away from the door. ‘If I remember correctly, last time I was in this room, you had a thing or two to say about my gifted fingers.’  
  
‘Do you have to do that?’ Arthur asks him, rubbing at his face as he watches Gwaine bend down and pick up the cufflink.  
  
‘Do what?’ he asks, looking up at Arthur and damnit, why does he have to be so fucking gorgeous.  
  
‘Turn everything into a joke.’  
  
Gwaine straightens and says, very softly, ‘Oh yes, love.’ His fingers slip the cufflink into the slits of Arthur’s sleeve and then they find Arthur’s chin. ‘You’d find life much less trouble if you didn’t try to take everything so seriously.’  
  
Arthur must still be a little drunk because his legs have gone a bit wobbly.  _Drunk on Gwaine,_  he thinks and he makes a decision. ‘Fuck it.’  
  
Gwaine’s mouth slides into a smile again when Arthur straightens and crowds him against the wall next to his wardrobe. He buries his head into the crook of Gwaine’s neck and inhales deeply. Gwaine smells of chocolate and warmth, of a hint of an aftershave Arthur remembers more with his body than his mind and he mutters  _shit. Shit, Gwaine, stop me if this isn’t –_. But one of Gwaine’s hands has curled around Arthur’s neck, holding him in place as he arches his back, baring his throat, inviting Arthur in.  
  
‘Maybe,’ whispers Gwaine, and Arthur feels a little more than satisfied when he hears the tremor in his voice. He presses closer, gently taking Gwaine’s earlobe between his teeth. ‘Fuck... maybe, we can skip the party.’  
  
Arthur laughs softly, pulls away a bit to lean his forehead against Gwaine’s temple. ‘Do you value your life?’ he asks, but it’s distracted because their hands have started an exploration quite of their own. And it’s familiar, Gwaine’s shoulders and his chest, the shirt wrinkling beneath Arthur’s hands.  
  
‘I do rather, at the moment,’ Gwaine grins, but his eyes are dark with want and he tilts his head, lips chasing Arthur’s, barely touching, just sharing the haze of a breath.  
  
‘Then we should go,’ Arthur says, unable to believe his mouth can actually form those words when he can feel the heat of Gwaine’s so close.  
  
‘Yes,’ says Gwaine, dragging a hand through Arthur’s hair, tugging a little at the top so he can look at him. He is everything beautiful and enticing and the little sigh of regret that parts Gwaine’s mouth before spreading into a smile, suggest that maybe, just maybe, he thinks Arthur is the same. ‘Yes, yes we should.’  
  
//  
  
 _Remove parchment from bottoms of cakes. Reserve the prettiest layer for the top. Place one cake layer on a serving platter; spread 1 1/2 cups chocolate frosting over the top. Add the second cake layer, and spread with another 1 1/2 cups frosting. Top with third cake layer._  
  
//  
  
(And that’s it really, they’ll go to Morgana’s party and they’ll steal touches surreptitious to exactly no one but themselves. Morgana will say, ‘Get a room, boys,’ and Gwaine will say, ‘Really?’ taking Arthur by the hand and dragging him from the sofa. Merlin will say, ‘Ew, ew, no not here.’  
  
\- ‘What’s the matter? Have something against gay sex, Merlin?’  
  
\- ‘Not at all, just something against your bare arse in any proximity to my sheets, Gwaine.’  
  
But then Merlin and Morgana will find them by the fridge, fingers carefully framing each others faces as if they just found something precious. Something that needs to be held and nurtured so it can grow and grow until it can’t be contained any more. They’ll gently kiss and Merlin will smile all dewy-eyed because Arthur is his best friend and if anyone deserves to be loved, it’s him. Morgana will tut but will allow Merlin to press his face into her hair none the less and be guided quietly out of the kitchen.)  
  
For now though, Arthur just walks into his own kitchen. He sees the beautifully finished chocolate cake and says, ‘How are you so good at that? Are you a pastry chef or something?’  
  
‘Only by training.’  
  
‘Why don’t you work as one, then?’  
  
‘I moved on. I get bored.’  
  
Arthur feels something sink to the bottom of his stomach and Gwaine must see it, because he reaches out and pulls Arthur closer. Pushing their foreheads together he says, ‘Hey,’ and again, ‘Hey,’ waiting until Arthur looks up. ‘Some things –,’ Gwaine licks his lips, drawing Arthur’s eyes to them, ‘– some things I’ll never get bored of.’  
  
  
//  
  
 _Cover outside of ~~Gwaine~~  cake with the remaining 3 cups of frosting. Serve._  
  
~//~

**Author's Note:**

> [ Here at LJ.](http://gwaine-quest.livejournal.com/21591.html#t739415)


End file.
